


A Flower Blossoms for its Own Joy

by Jaydee_Faire



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Consent, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Making Out, Physical Abuse, Scars, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24972748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydee_Faire/pseuds/Jaydee_Faire
Summary: Awaiting Ramza's arrival at Lionel castle, Isilud experiences gentleness and pleasure in the competent hands of a fellow Templar.
Relationships: Delita Heiral/Isilud Tengille
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	A Flower Blossoms for its Own Joy

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to CorpseBrigadier for the beta, and the encouragement, on this work :3

It didn’t matter what he had done.

All of the Templar knew, but especially Isilud, that as his father’s tension and frustration heated, whoever was unlucky enough to be near him would be scalded when it boiled over. Isilud hadn’t been the flame beneath the kettle-- that had been the Heretic, Ramza Beoulve-- but his father’s temper burned indiscriminate.

Isilud knew better than to try to run when he saw his father’s eyes light. That lesson, too, was an old one.

So he stood, unflinching, as the first blow landed and waited for the second. He had to be careful: standing too long would be taken for defiance; falling too soon would be an intolerable softness.

When Folmarv’s fist connected the third time, Isilud staggered, his mouth filling with salt and copper. He let himself go to his knees, then. He hoped the blood dripping from his swelling lip would serve as oblation and satisfy his father.

Isilud held his breath, keeping his eyes down, keeping himself still. A slow, warm rivulet of blood made its way over his chin and tickled down his throat. His heartbeat was roaring in his ears, a vision-darkening pulse of pain. 

“Get up.”

Not his father’s baritone growl. Still, Isilud flinched. There was a moment of expectant silence. “Get up. Come on.”

Isilud looked up to find a gloved hand extended toward him. Unthinking, he reached up to take it and was hauled to his feet. Too quickly: the world went gray for a moment, and he staggered, only to be caught and held steady by those unfamiliar hands.

He was led a step forward, and a step more, and staying upright seemed to take all of his concentration for a moment. When he finally looked up, he stared for several seconds at a solemn-faced profile. It was someone he had, before this, only seen from afar: Delita Heiral.

He stumbled, pitching forward, but Delita deftly caught him again and steadied him. Isilud was led onward, this time keeping his eyes pointed at the stone floor, watching his feet carry him. Lifting his head caused pain to stab into his temple.

They slowed, and Isilud glimpsed Delita’s gloved hand again, pulling open a door that led into darkness. Isilud balked, but his mazy, disorganized panic wasn’t a match against Delita’s will, and he was pushed through. Inside, the only light came from a pile of banked coals, red glowing dimly through a coating of white. It took him three uncertain, tentative steps into blackness before his eyes adjusted.

They were in a bedroom deep in the bowels of Lionel castle. It was Isilud’s room, at least for now. How Delita had known where it was Isilud didn’t know; the man let him sit on the hard, narrow bed, and Isilud sank down onto it gratefully. Delita released him and turned to the fireplace. Without those hands supporting him, Isilud found himself listing sideways until he had lain down, his head on the pillow, legs still dangling to the floor. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until…

“No. Don’t go to sleep. Sit up.”

He was being pulled again, by his collar and then by his shoulders. Isilud took a weak swipe at his assailant and his wrist was seized and held fast. Delita had poked up the fire and thrown on another log for light. It threw his face into sharp relief, one half of him golden and the other in deep shadow. Isilud watched Delita strip off one of his own gloves with his teeth and cast it aside. 

The touch of his bare hand made Isilud flinch; Delita offered no reassurance but drew his hand away for a moment before pressing his fingertips against Isilud’s cheek again. Even that light pressure against a growing bruise was agony, but when he tried to turn away Delita simply took his chin in his other hand and held him still. His hands were warm, the skin of his palm rough with something not quite a swordsman’s callous.

Delita’s fingers probed Isilud’s cheek, his jaw, his temple, in a gentle ring around his left eye. It wasn’t until he levered Isilud’s mouth open with his thumb and ran the pad of it across his teeth that he was able to jerk away. Delita let him go, then held his hand up to the light to look at the blood and saliva coating his fingers before carelessly wiping it off on his shirt. 

“Looks like you bit the inside of your cheek,” Delita said, looking at Isilud again. “You may not have fallen unconscious, but you took a heavy blow to the head.”

“I…” Isilud moved his tongue inside his mouth. Slowly, his senses were sharpening again, but the pounding in his head made it hard to think. “Why are you…?”

“I would have had to drag you to the chapel to find a white mage if you’d broken something.” Delita laid his palm against the side of Isilud’s face. “But I can manage this myself.”

Isilud felt the familiar prickle, then sting, of healing magic moving up his cheek and had the sense not to try to move away again. White magic was a finicky thing: if one didn’t turn to accept it, it often wouldn’t take, even in the most deserving of patients. But what Delita did was different. The soft words he chanted, head down and eyes closed, felt of something simpler: an ancient song of earth and blood. Isilud felt his head clearing and the ragged wound in his cheek knitting, and the tightness in his swollen face subsiding. He noted how Delita paused, his palm still pressed against Isilud’s skin, even after the magic had faded. He noticed too the way the man’s shoulders sagged a little when he finally pulled away.

They sat and let the silence grow between them before Isilud said, “It feels better. Thank you.”

Delita grunted as he stood up. “You ought to stay out of his way when he’s angry. The others do.”

“Oh, it isn’t-- you don’t understand; he’s always calmer when it’s done. It’s like lancing a boil.”

“I see. Are you the lance, or the boil?”

“I--” Isilud floundered. Before he could form the right words, Delita turned and went to the door, opening it and stepping back out into the hallway. Isilud got a last glimpse of the man slipping his gloves back on before the door shut, and he was alone.

*****

In the space of just a few days, the lush greenery and bright sunshine of early summer had given way to long days and even longer nights of oppressive heat. The cold stone walls of Lionel castle offered some respite to the men housed there with their captive Princess, but armored guards still had to suffer atop the crenelated walls of the keep. Isilud, though dressed simply in mail and a padded tunic beneath his tabard, was struggling to take a full breath in the humid air. 

He glanced over at Delita to see if the man was similarly exhausted, but encountered only the same neutral expression as the man always wore, albeit dampened at the temples and forehead by beads of moisture. The grass this far beyond the castle proper, growing over and between the ruins of some old rectory, had been allowed to grow high and untended in the spring. As a result, both of them were soaked to the knee as they waded through it.

The sun was setting in the hills behind them; fireflies blinked around them in the damp grass. All seemed sleepy and calm, too stupefied by the heat to move. But they’d had word that morning that Ramza had stepped off a ship at the port in Warjilis the day before. Regular patrols were being sent out to watch for his arrival should he miss the breadcrumbs leading him to Golgollada Gallows and instead come straight for Lionel. 

Isilud didn’t really think they’d see the youngest Beoulve son tonight. Gaffgarion had told them that the boy was emotional, prone to leaping to conclusions and barrelling headlong into trouble. He’d follow the Princess’s swordmaiden inland, rushing to save her from supposed danger. As soon as Gaffgarion and his men had him occupied, Ovelia would be whisked away out of his reach again.

They came to the edge of the ruins: a sheltered place where two walls met. Isilud peeked around the edge of it to be sure there weren’t any heretics hiding in the grass on the other side, then leaned back against the warm stone, sighing. Delita came to stand beside him, and they looked out at the purpling sky in silence. 

Isilud cleared his throat, then said, “All’s still quiet, then.”

Delita didn’t answer, but at least nodded when Isilud glanced over at him. Isilud offered a smile that he belatedly realized couldn’t be seen in the dark. “Do you think he’ll take the bait?”

“He will.”

Isilud tipped his head back, gazing up at the first stars beginning to glimmer overhead. He liked Delita. All of the other Templar he had known since he was a boy, but Delita had come to them only six months previously and Isilud had felt the slight thrill of meeting someone his own age after keeping company with nothing but serious older men for years. He knew very little about the man, save that he was competent with a sword and his father trusted him with important tasks.

Looking at him now, Isilud realized that he felt safe with Delita. Not that he often felt himself to be in danger, even when his father stalked the halls in a foul mood. But Isilud recalled Delita’s hands reaching out to steady him, to ease his pain. It was an odd, light feeling, fluttering beneath his ribs like a moth against a windowpane, as he let his eyes trace the line of Delita’s profile. Delita stared South toward Golgollada as intently as if he could see across the miles to where Ramza Beoulve hurried toward his doom.

It didn’t take long for Delita to notice Isilud’s attention on him, and he turned his head slightly to meet his eyes. Isilud thought he should look away, embarrassed at being caught staring, but instead he was drawn into that gaze, recalling a dim room, the prickle of magic, and the intoxicating feeling of being close to another human being. He hadn’t told anyone about that encounter with Delita, feeling that Cletienne or Loffrey or Barich’s knowledge of it would pollute it somehow. It had been a moment between them only, private and precious.

Isilud felt his heart beating faster, a giddy, reckless feeling stealing over him. It was like racing a chocobo, standing in the stirrups, and holding his breath at the apex of a too-long jump knowing that in that instant he balanced on a knife’s edge between victory and disaster. He let his eyes drop to the curve of Delita’s mouth. Delita took an abrupt step toward him.

Being kissed was a sensation so strong it was almost painful. doubled by the feel of Delita’s gloved hands against his cheeks and the closeness of his body, crowding Isilud against the wall. Delita broke away, breathing hard through his nostrils, and Isilud took two startled, exhilarated breaths of his own before he was kissed again. 

Isilud had never been kissed on the mouth, not like this. He hesitantly let his lips part and felt the slick heat of Delita’s tongue, the hardness of teeth dragging across his bottom lip. Isilud put a hand on Delita’s shoulder, then, boldly, slid his hand to the back of the man’s neck. Delita responded by grasping and then squeezing Isilud’s thigh, his other hand palming the curve of his waist. 

Delita’s fingers moved then to pull at the fastening at the front of Isilud’s pants and Isilud abruptly pulled away, gasping, “Delita, wait, I-- I’ve never--”

Delita released him, putting his hand on the wall beside Isilud’s shoulder to push a bit of space between them. Isilud swallowed, watching his face for any reaction, but as always Delita was an expert at hiding any real emotion. Delita stepped away, his gaze again straying to the South.

“I’m sorry,” Isilud said miserably.

“They’ll be expecting us back soon.” Delita looked over his shoulder, though not quite meeting his eyes. 

“I-- yes,” Isilud said, letting himself down off the wall and feeling his legs wobble a bit as they took his weight. “We should be getting back.”

Without waiting to see if Delita would follow, Isilud all but fled. He was admitted past the castle gate without comment, and from there he rushed to his chamber, shutting the door fast. 

As the darkness pressed in, he cursed himself for a fool, angrily dragging his tabard over his head and tossing it aside. He sat down on his bed and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, groaning.

*******

Though he dragged himself through it, it hardly took any time at all for Isilud to complete the few small chores needed to set his room to rights before undressing for bed. He had a ewer and a small washbasin on a stand beside his bed; he stripped down until he was wearing only the holy icon that was given to him during his accolade and draped his linen shift over a chair. Leaning over the washbasin, he used a rag to wipe away the worst of the day’s sweat and the dust and grime that could collect on a man’s body after walking about in armor for hours. The cool water was a blessing after the day’s heat, and he sighed, pressing the damp rag to the back of his neck and closing his eyes as a drop of water slipped down between his shoulder blades. 

Delita’s mouth, pressed against his, their arms around one another. He had been so warm, so real. He’d wanted to…

Isilud splashed cold water onto his face. Whatever he himself thought about illicit relations with fellow Templar, his body had no trouble signaling its enthusiasm. He stared into the bottom of the basin, deliberately keeping his hands away from himself. He wondered if Delita’s sudden advance on him had been sent as a temptation to withstand, or a blessing to a boy who so seldom knew a gentle touch, let alone a pleasurable one. 

He wondered what the Heavenly Father would think of him tending to himself before, or after, his nightly prayers, then hastily made the Holy Sign over himself in repentance. Perhaps he would simply say his prayers and then go to bed, and hope the issue would have resolved itself in the morning.

Isilud reached for his shift, drying his face on the scratchy linen. He had slipped his arms into it when someone knocked on the door, startling him.

His first thought was to pull the garment over his head-- he couldn’t answer the door in the nude-- but discovered to his dismay that though he may be covered, his condition was still very much visible. He vacillated, wondering if he had time to shake out his pants and put them back on, and the knock sounded again, louder.

“A moment!” It must be Ramza Beoulve; the heretic come for them in the night to catch them unawares. It would be his father at the door, then, pounding on it and growing angrier by the second. Isilud whipped his shift back over his head again and bundled it in front of himself, to seem as if he’d just been interrupted while dressing. Well, he had. And it was a ridiculous way to answer the door, but it would only be for as long as it took to shout orders at him.

Isilud lifted the simple door latch and pulled it open, expecting to see his father’s face and instead was met with a gloved hand against his chest, shoving him backwards into the room and then taking him by the chin to be kissed. 

There was no mistaking the owner of that insistent mouth, nor of the hands that this time didn’t hesitate to find the curve of Isilud’s thigh to his buttocks and-- an inarticulate noise, moaned against the corner of Delita’s lips as they broke apart for a moment-- his half-hard cock. It was only a brush of the fingertips, but the feel of it, even through the soft lambskin of Delita’s gloves, was enough to make Isilud draw up, his arms stiffening around the man’s neck.

When Isilud had recovered from the shock of Delita’s entry enough to look up, he found that the door had been shut and he had dropped his shift somewhere between there and the edge of his bed. It was there, he suddenly realized, Delita had been leading him. 

It was Isilud who sat down on the bed, Isilud who lay back and drew Delita down atop him. The man was still dressed in a soft red shirt, fastened at the neck and wrists with laces, and pants that felt strange against Isilud’s bare thigh as Delita let his knee sink into the mattress between Isilud’s legs. 

And those ubiquitous gloves, which now cradled Isilud’s face as they had out in the ruins of the rectory and then, as now, drew him into Delita’s kiss.

But their brief illicit moment against the wall was nothing compared to this, and as the heat rose in his body Isilud found himself trembling with something between fear and anticipation. He let out a shaking breath as Delita pulled away, closed his eyes when he felt lips brush his temple, then his cheek.

Delita’s breath was warm and tickling against the sensitive curve of Isilud’s ear as he spoke the first words between either of them since he’d come through the door: “Do you want me to stop?”

Isilud shook his head, eyes still shut tight. “No,” he said, but his voice shook. He took a breath, licking his lips. “No. Don’t stop.”

Delita’s fingers carded through Isilud’s hair, another gentle, soothing touch that raised goosebumps on his shoulders. His skin was already hypersensitive, greedily drinking in every sensation, and the warmth and moisture of Delita’s mouth against his neck made him gasp. Kisses were placed beneath his chin, in the hollow of his throat, his collarbone, each careful and lingering and followed by the tingling traces of Delita’s fingertips. 

His mouth closed over Isilud’s nipple and Isilud arched into the feeling, a hand clapped over his mouth too late to muffle the high, needy sound that he made. Delita teased him with teeth and tongue while Isilud whimpered into his palm. It was almost a relief when Delita drew away, and his next kiss was more chaste than the last, allowing Isilud a moment to catch his breath and come back from the edge of losing himself.

Delita sat up, using his teeth to pull off one glove, then the other, and when he next touched Isilud, it was with his bare skin. Isilud’s achingly hard cock lay in the dip between his hip and abdomen and Delita did little more than lay his hand against it at first, letting Isilud tense, fingers curling into the sheets, before forcing himself to relax again. The first stroke of Delita’s hand against Isilud’s cock, base to painfully sensitive tip, was slow, light, and Isilud had to put a hand over his mouth to muffle himself again. 

Delita touched him again, his hand this time slicked with oil, and his grip was harder, his other hand parting Isilud’s thighs. Isilud felt Delita’s finger press against him and then inside of him, a slow thrust that moved in time with the hand on his cock. 

“Delita,” Isilud whispered through his fingers. 

“Relax,” was the murmured reply, and a second finger joined the first. It was the most intimate sensation Isilud had ever experienced, someone inside of his body, and the newness and vulnerability of it instinctively made him want to shy away.

Then Delita curled his fingers upwards and Isilud forgot to swallow back his startled cry of pleasure, his gasping in the wake of it heavy and ragged. The second time, coupled with Delita’s other hand still working his cock, was a spike of pleasure so intense it was almost painful, and when Delita slipped a third finger inside of him, opening him further, Isilud could do little but buck helplessly into his hand.

Delita’s touch brought him to the bleeding edge of climax and Isilud was beyond words or any thought of who might be listening to his rising moans, to his repetitions of Delita’s name and his increasingly desperate blaspheming, calling out to the Gods and the Saints in a cracked voice, invoking the name of the Heavenly Father and begging for release. When he finally came it was with a choked-off cry of relief, his body going rigid, his orgasm spilling out in hot stripes across his chest.

Isilud closed his eyes, breath shuddering in his lungs. Delita came close to touch his cheek and to wipe away tears that Isilud couldn’t recall shedding. He was kissed again, softly, and as Isilud’s breathing finally began to even out he felt himself relaxing into the bed, his fingers coming untangled from the twisted sheets. He was dimly aware of Delita rising to his feet, of the feel of the cool, damp rag against his overheated body.

When he surfaced again, Isilud was turned half on his side, his arms tucked close to his body, as he usually did when sleeping. He sat up and found Delita sitting on the edge of the bed, arms resting on his knees. The man looked round at him, and something like amusement flashed behind those dark eyes. Isilud was mortified. “I fell asleep,” he said.

“You fell asleep,” Delita confirmed. “I almost thought you’d sleep the night through.”

Isilud pushed his hands through his hair; dried sweat had made it stiff along his temples and on the back of his neck. “How long did I… How long have you been waiting?”

“Only twenty minutes or so. Not long.”

“I’m sorry.” Isilud moved to sit beside Delita; he moved aside to make room. “You should have gone to bed. I mean I-- I’m glad you stayed, I-- I didn’t mean for you to have to--”

Delita shook his head. “I did not wish for you to wake alone.” He met Isilud’s eyes again. “I am not that sort of man.”

They were inches apart, and Isilud could feel his skin warming, his body reacting all over again. Boldly, he leaned in for a kiss, trying to do it as Delita had, wanting to be as competent, as confident. Instead he pulled away after a moment, licking his lips. 

Again, Delita’s fingers stroked Isilud’s hair back, cupped his cheek. “We can stop,” he offered.

“I thought we would…” Isilud’s eyes flicked to the bed they sat on. “Before, when you…”

“That takes time I do not think we have,” Delita said, then, “I do not consider myself the sort of man to want to hurt you in that way for my own pleasure, either.”

“But you haven’t--” Isilud took a breath. Perhaps he could force himself to say it, but he could not look the man in the eyes as he did. “I want to touch you,” he said. “I want to make you feel--” 

Delita took him by the chin again, soothing his awkwardness with a kiss. Isilud dared to sweep Delita’s hair back from his temple with a hand, then followed the line of his jaw down his neck to the laces at the front of his shirt. In an echo of Delita’s careful navigation of Isilud’s halting nervousness, Isilud asked, “May I?”

Isilud knew Delita’s answering hesitation couldn’t be the same sort of anxiety, but of what emotion did ride behind it, he wasn’t certain. However after that beat of silence, Delita lifted his chin to oblige him, and Isilud gently loosened the thin leather laces and pulled them free. He was offered then one wrist, and the other, and when all had been undone Delita pulled his shirt over his head and slipped his arms free and Isilud only just managed to keep his cry of surprise and dismay from leaving his lips.

The scars were extensive, reaching across his entire chest and trailing down both arms and to his palms. One evil little curl of ridged tissue climbed up the side of his neck as well, almost to his ear, and Isilud wondered how he had never noticed it before-- though before this night, he’d never seen Delita out of his armor. It was as if he’d lifted a burning log from a hearth and clutched it to himself. 

There was no concealing Isilud’s reaction, but Delita remained silent, offering no explanation. Isilud stilled the questions on his tongue; perhaps it was not for him to know. But he had asked, and been given permission, to touch. The shock of discovery was being overruled by curiosity, and he satisfied it by tracing his fingertips over the uneven ridges, feeling the texture first with his hands and then, moving closer, with his mouth. 

As Delita had done, Isilud laidy kisses across him, beginning at his wrist and feeling with his lips the places where scars gave way to smooth skin. He tasted the salt of sweat and the underlying warmth and sweetness of another man’s body, here at the forearm, here at the shoulder, here at the throat, where Delita tipped his head to one side and sighed, his hand curling round the back of Isilud’s neck. Isilud let his hand trail down Delita’s other arm and touched a thin leather cord with a small green stone hanging from it wrapped around his wrist; Delita gently moved it out of his reach. 

His mouth still exploring the space between Delita’s neck and shoulder, Isilud put a hand on the man’s thigh and slid upward to touch, shyly, the slight curve of his cock inside of his pants. And before he could come up with some craven reason not to do it, he stood from the bed and went to his knees before Delita, undoing the fastening on his pants with fingers that he told himself weren’t shaking at all.

Delita’s cock, as Isilud took it into his hand, was like his own. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected-- he’d never touched another man like this before, and the growing hardness against his palm was something he’d previously only felt with himself. He ran his thumb over the head, flicked a glance up at Delita for approval, and got that faint glint of amusement again before he said softly, “Keep going.”

Isilud was inexperienced, but he kept company with soldiers. Even among knights ostensibly fighting for the honor of the Church, talk in taverns and around campfires invariably turned to what went on in the city’s brothels, or in narrow alleys, or in draughty rented rooms that smelled of old sweat and bad ale. He had heard this act described many more times than was needed, for the simplicity of it. 

And it thrilled him, thinking of it, wanting to do this for Delita, wanting him to find pleasure in it. In him. Isilud took the head of Delita’s cock into his mouth, worked his tongue against it, and heard Delita suck in a breath through his teeth. 

Isilud fumbled a bit, pulling away and then starting again, sliding his mouth further down the shaft. He tried to go farther, but found that if he pushed too much, his tongue would fight him and he feared he would gag. Delita, fully hard, was bigger than he had supposed at first, or perhaps his mouth was smaller than he remembered. 

When Isilud came away again, Delita reached out to take his hand, leaning down to kiss his fingers before wrapping them around his own cock. “Like this,” he said, and showed Isilud how to move his hand in slow, firm strokes, beginning with his thumb below the base and ending just below the head. Then, “Use your lips, and your tongue. Go slowly, there’s no need to rush.”

Isilud was skilled at many things, but excelled most in doing what he was told. He followed Delita’s patient guidance, sucking only the head and moving his hand and tongue in unison. With his other hand, resting on Delita’s thigh, he could feel the sudden tensing of the muscle there that accompanied Delita’s breathy groan of appreciation. 

Isilud would have been happy just hearing Delita’s quickening breaths, the lip-bitten moans of a man trying not to tumble too quickly over the edge. But Delita wove his fingers through Isilud’s hair, nails grazing his scalp, and whispered his praises of Isilud’s beautiful mouth, his talented tongue, how good it was, how near he was to release. And you will drink that down, too, won’t you, you’ll swallow it all and let me taste my salt on your lips.

The thought inflamed him; Isilud’s mouth tightened on Delita’s cock and Delita’s caressing fingers curled inward, grasping a fistful of Isilud’s hair. When he came it was with a low groan, rolling like a growl as Isilud flinched, swallowed, then drew away and swallowed again. He lifted a hand to wipe his mouth, but Delita beat him to it, swiping a smear of come from Isilud’s lip with his thumb.

Delita’s fingers tipped Isilud’s chin up, and Isilud was met by the man’s serene expression, a rare smile curling at the corners of his mouth. More than rare: Isilud wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Delita looking so pleased before. It was like emerging from morning mass into the sun and Isilud basked in it, warmed by his satisfaction, his approval. 

A kiss-- as Delita had promised, seeking the bitter tang still lingering in Isilud’s mouth-- and then another, and Isilud was being laid down across the bed again. His cock was interested, but his legs and back still ached, to say nothing of the red tenderness of his knees. He opened his mouth, unsure how to object.

“Your father will be cross if he finds you nodding off in a pew tomorrow,” Delita said, one fingertip following the chain of the holy icon still hanging from Isilud’s neck. “You should try to sleep.”

Isilud raised himself up onto his elbows. “You’re going?”

“Lord Folmarv has tasked me with bringing the Princess to Zeltennia. It wouldn’t do to have me falling out of the saddle on the way, either.” Delita hooked his finger into the chain. “I can stay a little while yet.”

Even laying on his side, Isilud knew the bed was hardly big enough for two, but he wasn’t about to send Delita away. He watched Delita rise and perform the familiar motions of putting out the candles, watched him undress by the scant moonlight from the window. 

He sat down on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and when he lay down beside Isilud it felt somehow more intimate than anything else they’d done that night. Delita’s foot brushed Isilud’s calf, his arm snaked around Isilud’s waist. The warmth and smell of another man, the feel of his skin-- Isilud drank it in greedily, pressing closer and imagining he could feel Delita’s scars against his back. 

Certainly he felt them against his thigh as Delita’s hand sought the adolescent eagerness of Isilud’s reawakening cock. 

Isilud whispered Delita’s name into his pillow, followed by his God’s.

***

Delita sat up into darkness, a cry dying in his throat. 

He hunched forward, taking several shaking breaths and scrubbing his hands over his face. Beside him, Isilud stirred sleepily and turned over. Delita glanced at the window; it was some time before dawn, when the sun had not yet thought of rising but birds had already begun calling to one another. 

He swung his legs out of bed and stood. Isilud woke immediately, sitting up with his hair in a tangle and his icon hanging down his back. Delita, no stranger to dressing quickly in the dark, was already lacing up his clothing by feel. Isilud watched him, silent, though Delita couldn’t imagine he could see much more than a gray shape in the darkness.

Delita could have walked straight to the door, boots in one hand, with his only worry encountering someone who would wonder what he was doing coming out of Isilud’s room at this hour. Instead he turned to let his mouth find Isilud’s for a moment, and then more than a moment as Isilud clung to him. When they’d parted he asked, “When will I see you again?”

“Our business in Zeltennia may keep me there some time,” Delita said, straightening up.

“We are bound for Lesalia, I think,” Isilud said quietly. “From there I do not know. Perhaps if I ask my Father to find a reason to send me further East--”

“He will see the both of us in Mullonde before long.” To the door. “And I will see you.”

Isilud was staring at him, his mouth about to open on the words _Do you promise me?_

But perhaps he’d supped too long on his Father’s lies to invite another from Delita with such a question. 

“Godspeed, then,” Isilud said in its place. “May the Heavenly Father guide you and keep you.”

Delita slipped out into the hallway at last, keeping to the shadows as he made his way toward where Ovelia slept.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a result of a rarepair thread on twitter and my undying love for hurt/comfort and the deflowering of religious virgins.
> 
> Re: The Heretic: I know that Ramza wasn't formally declared a heretic until after Lionel, but I kept it in. 
> 
> You can follow me on twitter or send me a ko-fi by visiting jaydeefaire.carrd.co.


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